


emperor philippa augustus iaponius centarius, the hypocrite

by sapphicish



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Gen, mirror!philippa feels things. she DOES, post 3x02, reunited and it feels so etc, there is a prolonged hug!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:42:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27227533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicish/pseuds/sapphicish
Summary: Philippa breathed in Michael, and put her hands on her back. She was warm and solid, and healthy-feeling in addition to healthy-looking, which was more than the condition Philippa had expected them to find her in. Michael Burnham in any universe was not the kind of person to fall so easily, though she knew some people would have pointed out that itwasn'teasy, that itwouldn'thave been easy. She knew Michael Burnham her daughter and this Michael Burnham not-her-daughter, and neither of them would go like that, would let themselves fade away like that, but still Philippa had felt it like a hound at her back, its teeth nipping at her ankles. A shadow of a ghost of a thing.Concern.
Relationships: Michael Burnham & Mirror Philippa Georgiou, Michael Burnham/Mirror Philippa Georgiou
Comments: 5
Kudos: 62





	emperor philippa augustus iaponius centarius, the hypocrite

**Author's Note:**

> i love to love them and if they don't hug this season...knife emoji

“Philippa,” Michael said.

“Michael,” Philippa said.

It was the first time she'd laid eyes on Michael in what felt, really, like a year.

And considering the fact that, apparently, it had been an actual year since Michael had laid eyes on her in turn was giving Philippa something of a migraine, or maybe she'd already had one – the hours were beginning to blur together, the events of the last twenty-four doing just the same. Not even the cool darkness of her reclaimed, partially-wrecked quarters was easing the pain in her head any. As much as she had been telling the truth about enjoying universe-hopping, it did no favors for her in the aftermath, when things were settling down to a boring, quiet state and she had nothing to do but soak in her own silent exhaustion.

Michael looked good. Philippa liked her hair like this, she wanted to touch it so she did, reached out and ran her fingers loosely through. Michael let her, which made a little thing inside of Philippa preen. She didn't put a name to it, she didn't care, she just knew the feeling. Like the way she knew the feeling of Michael's new hair now, wrapped around her fingertips.

She let go.

Michael stepped forward and hugged her. She smelled good. She felt good, too.

Philippa remembered the way she'd felt when seeing that face on the screen, beaming and ecstatic, and it was a little like the way she felt now, only lessened to a dull ache in her body or maybe that was the actual dull ache in her body. She stood there and let it come in slow waves, picking herself apart.

No, it was a separate feeling, a sensation not like actual pain at all.

She hated that.

Philippa breathed in Michael, and put her hands on her back. She was warm and solid, and healthy-feeling in addition to healthy-looking, which was more than the condition Philippa had expected them to find her in. Michael Burnham in any universe was not the kind of person to fall so easily, though she knew some people would have pointed out that it _wasn't_ easy, that it _wouldn't_ have been easy. She knew Michael Burnham her daughter and this Michael Burnham not-her-daughter, and neither of them would go like that, would let themselves fade away like that, but still Philippa had felt it like a hound at her back, its teeth nipping at her ankles. A shadow of a ghost of a thing.

_Concern._

Philippa wasn't a hugger. Out of all the close-proximity things that she could do with people, it didn't even make her top ten favorites, and the list didn't even include the violent ones like snapping someone's neck.

Hugging was dull, and involved too much implied feeling that Philippa usually didn't feel. In fact, she didn't remember the last time she'd gotten a hug or given one, and that was probably because she must have been a child or something the last time it happened, too weak and small to know any better, before she took the galaxy in her hands and made it hers—and then lost it.

“I like the hair,” Philippa said against Michael's shoulder, casually instead of with all her weight and the weight in her mind, and touched it again. Maybe her hand lingered at the point just beneath, where Michael's neck met her shoulder and her shoulder met her neck, and she let it do that, and Michael let it do that.

“Thank you,” Michael said, with a touch of laughter in her voice even though Philippa didn't understand why. She didn't care enough to ask, either.

Michael let go of her and it felt like she lost something, not that she wasn't a little relieved at the same time.

She wasn't a hugger.

Broken glass crunched beneath their feet when they stepped back as one, and Michael glanced around, a little furrow between her brows.

Philippa shrugged, ignoring the sharp pain in her shoulder and the stab in her ribs when she moved. She hadn't yet gone to the medbay since returning from the planet, and despite Saru's protests she wouldn't. The pain was good, a hard and enjoyable thing, like sex without all the mess and cleanup—though in this particular situation, more mess and more cleanup.

Pain was always more annoying than pleasant after the fact. In the moment, with adrenaline pumping through her veins and sweat slick on her skin as those 32nd century idiots tried to make her scream until her throat bled, it was more like ascending than it ever was like falling. In the aftermath, it was like the falling was over, and here she was, at the very bottom. Quiet. Still. Aching.

Bored.

“You'll have to forgive me,” she said drily, “I hardly had any time at all to clean up before you decided to intrude.”

She hadn't cleaned up at all, in fact, and the room reflected that—nor was she seeking forgiveness for it, and Michael's small smile reflected that.

“Are you all right?”

“Never better, Michael,” Philippa said, and patted Michael firmly on the cheek, pleased to see her little wince—not of pain, more like surprise. Or a buried instinct, a desire to back away from a threat. She didn't let the touch linger, though a part of her wanted to, just to see what would happen, to see the look in Michael's eyes, to see what she would do in response. “Should you be asking that question, rather than the other way around?”

She wasn't going to be the one asking, however, and they both knew it.

“I'm fine,” Michael said.

“I knew you would be,” Philippa said dismissively.

“You weren't there when I came onboard.”

“All that hugging, crying, rejoicing.” Philippa wrinkled up her nose. “Makes me nauseous.”

Michael looked at her and for one long, irritating moment Philippa thought that she would mention their hug just a minute previous. Philippa hadn't initiated it, but she'd responded, and that was all the proof that one needed to go on the attack against her for it.

Emperor Philippa Georgiou Augustus Iaponius Centarius, the hypocrite.

Ugh.

“I'm glad to see you,” Michael said, and the way she said it –

Philippa thought about what else she might mean by it, what else she might have said. _I'm glad to see you_ sounded a little like _I missed you_ in this context, which also meant that things were getting a little too sappy for her liking, and it made her skin itch.

“I'm sure,” she said, “you must have been absolutely miserable all that time without me there.”

Michael looked caught off guard for a moment – and then she laughed, clear and quiet, something smooth sliding down the nape of Philippa's neck, all the way across each bump of her spine.

“Something like that,” Michael said.

“Good,” Philippa said, knowing that the message would get across well enough. _Good that you're glad, good that you missed me, good that you're here._ It was all she was willing to spare. “Stay.” She paused to let Michael's surprised look sink in, then rolled her eyes. “To _clean,_ of course. Someone needs to help me with this mess, since it is your Federation's idiotic choice not to have servants.”

“Servants?” Michael's eyebrows raised pointedly.

“Everyone gets the most ridiculous look on their faces when I say the _other_ S word.” Philippa leaned down to right a chair, then straddled it and gave Michael an expectant look. “Go on. It won't clean itself, and you can fill me in on everything I've missed, seeing as I wasn't there to weep on your shoulder like the rest. You are welcome for that, by the way. It must have been so _exhausting._ ”

“Fine,” Michael said, “but you have to go to the medbay afterwards.”

“Ugh. What _for?_ ”

Michael gave her a knowing look. Philippa thought about Saru and Tilly, who had been witness to her very brief and therefore very boring 'torture' (the apostrophes were there, you see, to make it clear that Philippa did not consider it actual torture, and had spent some countless moments in her life that were far worse and some of those moments hadn't even been all that bad either, which only went to show her that the people of the 32nd century just did not know how to do anything properly, not even when they really wanted to), and groaned. Of course they couldn't keep their big mouths shut.

“Please,” Michael said, like that would do something.

It didn't. It absolutely didn't. It never would.

Michael met her eyes, solid and firm and unwavering, and Philippa sighed. This was a battle she was not going to win, and she loathed that with every fiber of her being.

“ _Fine._ Now talk. And clean.”


End file.
